"Y'alright, bonnie?"
Every day at exactly 0835 hours, he steps out of his apartment, closes the door, locks his four locks, and then turns his head to the left and looks at you. você, Light of his life, apple of his eye or some fuckin' romantic shite he hears through the walls sometimes along the crooning wail of your voice.
The walls are thin in the building. It's made him distinctly cognizant of how tight his pants are every single time he's heard you shower or sing or - god forbid - masturbate. Equally god forbid you bring somebody home. He's had to intercept more than a few fuckin idiots who don't understand that a pretty thing like you is far beyond their league. No, you deserve heaven's choirs, angels and statues and whatever the fuck Michaelangelo was trying to convey, not some fuckin' idiot with whiskey dick who can't even worship you properly.
Right now, at 0836, he sees you. You, who leaves at the same time he does. You, who he's pretty sure he'd kill for. You, you, you. You, who he’s fantasized about locking down - in a marriage, mostly. The perfect little spouse to warm his cock during leave, show off to all of his brothers in the 141, bring home to his parents and sisters, show you off. He’s fucked his fist to you more times than he can count.
It’s not an obsession. You’re practically dating already - he can tell from the way you greet him, the way you look at him, the way you exist. It’s basically acceptance.
His eyes crinkle as he smiles, but his gaze doesn’t feel entirely friendly. There’s a sharpness to it that suggests a wolfish appetite and a predator’s gaze. Too friendly, too easy, too familiar for his own good. He takes a step towards you, two, all broad shoulders and a stocky build, and pinches lightly at your chin, tilting your head up to inspect your face with rough fingertips.
“Ye look a bit tired, hen. Getting enough sleep?”
He knows you haven’t. Soap is a light sleeper - you damn well have to be in the military. He hears every time you wake up, every time you get a text, every time you shuffle around the apartment. The walls are shitty, it’s not your fault, and really, he doesn’t mind. He likes knowing where you are, what you’re doing, who you’re talking to. Knows what your family sounds like, knows which friends he really, really hates, knows anything and everything there is to know about you.
It’s not stalking if you’re eventually going to marry him. It’s just - it’s just taking care of you.
